


Onset

by anr



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-28
Updated: 2005-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The workday week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Onset

It begins on set.

Episode thirty-two, act three, scene seven, and it should probably surprise her to realise that he's just as into it as she is. Probably should, but _doesn't_ , and the only justification she can come up with is that everything for them starts on the set, so why should this be any different?

"Frak you!" spits Apollo, and swings, and Katee just manages to catch the flash of fire in Jamie's eyes before his fist kisses her cheek, and she ducks down and weaves up, and returns the punch with just as much enthusiasm.

"And... _cut_!"

They don't pull apart -- her retaliation has placed her inside the frame of his arms, and she's never been very good at moving out of his personal space -- but they do manage to halt their momentum, and twist a little, so that they can both meet Frank's eyes.

"Great job you two," he says, nodding approvingly. "Excellent timing at the end there."

"Thanks," she says. Jamie doesn't say anything, but she can feel him nodding a similar response, and the brush of his chest against her upper arm as he pants sends a shiver down her spine. She grins and bounces a little on her toes. "Another take?"

"Hmm... I don't..." Frank turns back to the camera and studies the dailies for a moment. "No, actually, I think that'll do us." He nods decisively. "Yep, we'll wrap here."

A quiet cheer echoes from the direction of the set crew, and Katee rolls her eyes -- lightweights, the lot of them -- before slanting a wicked grin towards Jamie. "Guess that means I win again," she says lightly, nudging her hip into his abdomen playfully.

He narrows his eyes and lets his left hand rise just enough so that his fingers can twitch against the small of her back. "Just because you got the last punch, doesn't mean you've won the war." He drops his hand again before she can fully appreciate the touch.

"Six of the last fights, Apollo darling, _six_. And I've ended them all."

"That's only because the writers _let_ you, Starbuck _honey_."

She laughs brightly, teasingly, and then reaches up to pat his cheek. "Whatever helps you sleep easier at night, stud," she says, and winks, and does not miss the way his gaze darkens.

She makes herself walk away.

  


* * *

  


On Tuesday she spends all morning in her Viper, filming against a green-screen, and by lunchtime she's too wired to sit down (needs to go for a run, or punch someone, or do something, anything, that doesn't involve staying still) so she makes Grace stand with her at the buffet table, the two of them blocking the sandwiches and bagels as they compare bruises while they eat. (Grace has been rehearsing again with Tricia and Katee's almost sorry she missed it.)

She's still laughing over Grace's recounting of James' expression as they'd sparred -- slack-jawed and almost _drooling_ , she insists -- when Jamie cuts in between them.

"Excuse me, ladies," he says, all manners, as he leans in to study the selection of food, and Grace smiles at him and asks him about his morning, but Katee can't do anything except grip her soda too tightly because he is leaning against her, and she can feel every inch of him. His left hand is resting lightly on her hip as his chest presses into her back, groin brushing her ass, and when he stretches for a chicken and avocado bagel from the back of the table, she has to bend with him so he can reach. She's not sure if the pressure is too much or not enough.

When he pulls back, and they straighten, his thumb skims the line of skin just above her waistband, and her heart-rate doubles and then triples, and she _knows_ he knows this because he does it again, even slower.

"See you on set?" he asks then, and it's directed at her -- in more ways than one, with his breath hot on the side of her neck -- so she nods, and smiles, and he steps back, outside of her space, and the distance doesn't make any difference whatsoever because she can still feel him, all over her, and it's _definitely_ not nearly enough. She can't move.

He walks away.

  


* * *

  


They film the lead up to their confrontation on Wednesday which means the quarters set, and Apollo undressing, just inches from her shoulder, as she lies on her bunk and teases him about his hand-to-hand skills. It's all banter and innuendo and wide grins, and she knows the fans will love it almost as much as they'll hate the way it all ends, two scenes later in the gym, when the teasing takes on a harder edge. Monday's dialogue, however, seems like a long, long time ago as she stretches on her bunk, midriff bare because costuming's making the most of her sports bra and sweats ensemble this season, and has some fun.

"And here I was," she says, voice barely withholding laughter, "thinking that the CAG would be setting a better example." She raises her arms and links her hands behind her head; watches his eyes stay on her stomach as her muscles flex with the movement.

He snorts and pulls his shirt off; runs a hand through his hair to smooth it down again. "As opposed to the example set by their instructor? Punch first and check if they're friendly or not later?"

She grins, all Starbuck. "I haven't heard any complaints." 

He rolls his eyes, because he's Apollo and he's meant to. "That's because they're usually unconscious by the time you've let them hit the floor."

She laughs; arches her back as she brings her right leg up, foot planted beside her left knee. (Sees him swallow just a little too hard and knows that _that_ 's all Jamie.) "I can't help it if I'm that good," she says and, yeah, her voice is probably too low for what Frank has in mind for the scene but she can't bring herself to care (if her tone is affecting Jamie even half as much as the press of his body against hers tortured her yesterday, it's well justified).

But he grins at her, and laughs with her, and doesn't miss a beat, and damn if that doesn't make it all the more fun.

Three takes in total, each one longer than the last, and his eyes aren't leaving hers by the end, so she relaxes into the mattress and stretches just a little slower. Keeps one hand on the curve of her hip, her little finger almost slipping under the waistband of her sweats, and _smiles_.

He stutters.

  


* * *

  


On Thursday she has CIC scenes with Eddie and Michael (and Alessandro and Kandyse) and by the time Frank lets them go for lunch (two hours later then usual) she can hardly think straight. Four pages of margin-to-margin dialogue and it's been thirty-seven goddamned takes already because Eddie's still getting over a bad cold and he can't help but cough every time he has to say more than three words. (She loves the man, really she does -- he's one of the most incredible actors she's ever had the privilege of working with and he's taught her so much over the past few years -- but would it kill him to take a sick day once in awhile?)

In the break room, Jamie and Aaron and Nicki are playing cards, scripts open beside them, and she watches them uncomprehendingly for several minutes. She thinks they might actually (maybe) be betting lines.

"I'll see your ' _sure thing, Chief_ ' and raise you an ' _on the contrary, Madam President_ '."

"Well, that's me out. Nicki?"

"' _What if it's not Cylons_ '. Let's see what you've got."

"Full house."

"Shit."

Tahmoh's asleep on the lounge, feet dangling over the edge, and she eyes him enviously -- briefly thinks about kicking him off, or at least making him move over enough to share -- before dropping down onto the floor beside Jamie. Nicki smiles at her as Aaron starts shuffling the deck.

"Deal you in, Katee? We could play pairs?"

The only type of dialogue she wants to think about for the next fifty-four minutes is a cartoon bubble full of z's. "Pass." Leaning back against the wall, she closes her eyes, and then opens them again when Jamie nudges her shoulder with his own.

"You okay?"

"Mmm," she tries for a smile, because he looks a little concerned, and nods. "Just brain dead."

He smiles back, and brushes his fingers lightly over hers where her hand is on the ground between them, and then turns back to the game. She watches him sort his cards -- ace-high flush, if he can pick up a ten and a queen -- and gradually drifts away.

When she wakes up, three quarters of an hour later, Nicki and Aaron (and Tahmoh) are gone but Jamie's still beside her, reading his script. His hand is on hers again, fingers just curling into her lax grip, and his shoulder is warm under her cheek, and she doesn't want to move -- wants to just stay here, like this, with him -- but she'll be due back on set soon and she knows she can't.

Stretching, she pulls away and scrubs her hands over her face -- hopes to god she didn't drool all over him while she napped -- and tries to remember where she left her water bottle.

"Feel better?" he asks, and when she looks over at him, he's leant forward as well, and she starts thinking things she probably shouldn't because he's smiling at her and his eyes are soft and his mouth is so close and...

"Much," she manages. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

With difficulty, she gets up and walks away.

  


* * *

  


Friday is location day, and most of the cast are off set for pretty much all of it. Katee's not -- her filming quota, thankfully, has already been met for the week -- and usually the quiet wouldn't bother her (she's been desperate for an uninterrupted gym session all week, not to mention the fact that next week's episode is once again all about the dialogue and she has more lines than she can count to memorise) but the hours seem to pass too slowly with everybody off doing their own thing. By the time she's made it back to her trailer, and started gathering together everything she wants to take home for the weekend, she's itching for company.

The perfunctory rap on her door makes her pause, and she turns away from her backpack long enough to glance at Jamie as he enters the trailer. "Hey you," she smiles, grabbing her water bottle, "good day?"

He doesn't quite smile back, just _looks_ at her, and before she can repeat the question, he's taken the two steps necessary to block her against the edge of her table. " _Long_ day," he corrects, and then leans in and kisses her.

There's nothing teasing about the kiss, nothing tentative, just his mouth slanting across hers until her lips part from the pressure. When he tilts his head just a little to the right, his tongue flicks against her teeth twice before sliding against her own. Insistent, deep, and her free hand curls into the fabric of his shirt for thirty-two breathless seconds before she regains enough control to push him away.

He doesn't go far, and she stares at his mouth for too long a moment before dragging her gaze up to his. She arches an eyebrow. "Missed me, huh?"

One of his hands rises to brush against her cheek, thumbing aside strands of hair, while his other remains on her hip. "You have _no_ idea."

She laughs -- can't help it -- and drops her water bottle. Rolls her shoulders back and lets her smile turn challenging. "So show me."

He doesn't, and she waits.

Ten seconds. Longer. Forty. She's still waiting.

After what feels like forever, his gaze finally breaks from hers, and it's... not enough, not by a long shot, but it's _something_ , and she exhales; watches his eyes focus on her lips as they part slightly. When he leans in again, she swallows hard, and lifts her chin up to meet his approach, and then hisses sharply when he feints at the last moment and kisses her neck instead.

His teeth scrape against her skin until he finds the flutter of her pulse, and when he stays there, tasting her, she can't help but hate him a little for that because she just _knows_ he's going to leave a mark and for that reason alone she should probably stop him -- makeup will kill her -- but she can't, doesn't want to, and her head tilts to the side to give him better access.

He takes it, and the pressure, the suction, is almost painfully good. She groans, and reaches up to grip his head, pulls him back just enough to catch his lips with hers. Kisses him hungrily and lets her hands wash down over his shoulders, arms, until she can reach his waist. When she moves them back up again, she does so underneath the fabric of his shirt, and his skin is so _warm_...

"Katee? You still here?"

She yanks her lips away from his and listens, somewhat panicked, as Tricia knocks again.

"Katee?"

Eyes wide, she stares at Jamie. " _Please_ tell me you locked that door," she hisses, and he doesn't say anything, just shrugs a little, and smiles, and tightens his grip on her waist, tugging her hips into his. He's already hard and her nails dig into his back. " _Bastard_."

His grin widens and, before she can stop him, he has his mouth on her throat again, and his hands are doing what hers started, edging her top upwards, fingers dragging over her skin. Her breath locks in her chest and she closes her eyes, and _prays_ , and someone up there must be in an understanding mood, because the next thing she hears is the sound of Tricia's heels on the pavement outside as she walks away from the trailer.

She breathes out in a relieved rush. "Oh, you are _such_ a dead man," she mutters, and he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter as his hands find her ribcage, thumbs skimming along the edge of her bra.

It tickles and she sucks in a deep breath, because they're too close for her to arch away, and he takes advantage of that too, fingers drifting higher. She starts her own hands moving again, nails laddering his spine and then down again, tracing lazy patterns on his skin. When he hums a little, the sound shoots straight through her, so she does it over and over, until everything's just a blur of sensation and nonsensical vowels and...

She pulls away. Frees her hands and plants them on his chest, pushing hard. "No," she says, "stop."

He does, his hands leaving her skin as she keeps him at arms length, chest rising and falling underneath her fingertips. He's breathing hard, the ragged exhales loud in her trailer, and she almost tells him to stop that too, because her concentration is shot already and _knowing_ that she has that kind of effect on him just makes it worse.

"Katee --"

"No." She takes her hands away, and shakes her head; tries to focus. "We can't do this."

His gaze skitters away from hers. "Right," he says, and she looks down at their feet -- watches as he takes a step backwards -- and swallows hard. "Right." And there's something in his voice with the repetition, a tone she recognises almost too well, so she looks up again and, oh, he's back to staring at her and she _definitely_ recognises that smirk.

She narrows her eyes. "I mean it, Jamie."

He gives her a sweet, innocent, butter-couldn't-melt-in-my-mouth smile. "Because it would be wrong?" he asks, too lightly, and she has to bite her lip against a burst of laughter (it would only encourage him) and force herself to frown.

"Among other reasons," she says, and crosses her arms.

_His_ hands find his hips and, god, it's such a pose that for a moment all she can see is the poster-boy pin-up all their female fans seem to adore so much... right up until he opens his mouth and she remembers what he's really like. "Name them."

She snorts. "Please. You know 'em as well as I do."

One shoulder lifts and falls, an almost shrug. "Possibly," he admits, "but right now -- and I can't imagine _why_ \-- I'm having a little trouble remembering." The slow, dragging pan of his gaze on her body is deliberate and over-the-top and, damn him, no less effective for it.

"I hate you," she says, "number one."

He laughs, and drops down onto her couch; waves a hand in her general direction. "Keep going."

She swats at his outstretched hand, and he obviously must have planned on her doing that, because his fingers catch her wrist almost instantly, tugging her away from the table edge so she's standing in front of him. "It would be wrong."

"I thought we already established that?"

He still has her hand in his, fingers idly tracing the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. "It's important -- bears repeating."

"Ah." His other hand, which is resting on his thigh, begins a slow inch towards her. She pretends not to notice.

"We might get caught." She almost adds 'again' to that but, all jokes about his memory aside, Tricia hasn't been gone _that_ long.

"And we might not." His hand leaves his knee, curls around her thigh, and smoothes up to her hip. "Next?"

She shifts in his grip, catches glimpses of the rest of her trailer in her peripheral vision. "It would be an inappropriate use of set property."

His eyebrow arches, as a wide grin slips across his face. "Oh, I'd _love_ to know what you're thinking of, if that's the argument against it."

"Number five," she says quickly, as if he hasn't said anything, "we have responsibilities that --" He pulls suddenly on her hand and hip, tugging her off-balance and down onto him, and it's only through clever fumbling that her knees don't end up in his groin. "-- take precedence over --" She's half-draped over him now, hands propped on his shoulders for balance while his work their way under the waistband of her sweats. "-- responsibilities that take --"

"Said that already."

She draws in a jagged breath as his fingers trace the elastic edge of her underwear, and curls her nails into his shoulder-blades. She has no idea what she was trying to say. "Did I mention I hate you?"

"I can't remember."

Neither can she.

She kisses him then. Kisses him hard, thoroughly, and when she finally lets him up for oxygen, she can barely remember her own name, let alone the reasons why this is such a bad idea.

"Stop thinking," he says against her lips, her chin, her throat.

_Katee_ , she thinks, and decides that's probably enough. "Right."

It's quick work to reach between them and unbuckle his belt, unfasten his jeans, but their limbs tangle comically when she tries to free him of them entirely _whilst_ he's trying to slide her sweats and underwear off and, before she knows it, she's laughing harder than she has all week. It's awkward and frantic and _ridiculous_ , and then he's swearing in three different languages as he fights with her clothes. Her sides start aching from the unintentional hilarity of it all.

"God," she gasps, struggling for air, for sobriety, "stop, please, _Jamie_ , wait!" She pushes his hands away, takes over, and does it herself.

Forty-eight seconds to free her legs, help him tug his jeans and boxers out of the way, (decide that any further undressing would be an unnecessary -- and excruciating -- delay), and straddle him properly, but only three to sink down onto him. To take him into her, and hold him there, barely breathing, until the world has stopped spinning.

" _God_ ," he grits out, hands clenching on her hips, and she nods a little, agrees with him, and then rises up, and slides down; grins when she sees his eyes snap shut.

Slow, even movements as she undulates above him. She rides him carefully, like this is a moment to be treasured, memorised, and his fingers cup her waist, her ribs, her shoulders, like he can't bear not to touch her for even a moment.

They don't talk -- there's no need to -- and she kisses him constantly, foregoing oxygen as much as possible, until the air around them is full with the soft slap of her skin against his, his groans mixing with hers.

When he reaches one hand between them, and strokes her just there, just right, her breathing catches, and she falls, and it's good, so very, very good, this slow burn spreading through her limbs, so she smiles a little, and kisses him more, and keeps moving until he can feel the same.

He smiles against her lips as he comes, the tip of his tongue just kissing hers, and she thinks, _you, love you, love..._

Pulling back, she sighs softly, and rests her forehead on his shoulder; smiles. "Been awhile since we've done that."

He laughs then, a sharp bark of disbelief. "You're kidding, right?" She shrugs. "Because I _distinctly_ remember being on the receiving end of some rather nasty looks when we arrived today, all because _someone_ wouldn't let us get out of the shower this morning and --"

"What? I had to make sure you were clean." She leans back just enough to grin at him.

"Since I'm pretty sure fellatio's what people refer to as a _dirty_ act, I think you'll find that's rather contradictory."

She snickers. "Didn't hear you complaining at the time." Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she starts to move away. "Besides, what I _meant_ was -- it's been awhile since we've done this _here_."

He helps lift her off his lap, dropping her beside him on the sofa, and then bends down to collect her underwear and sweats from the floor as he tugs his own clothes back into some semblance of order. "Hey, I wasn't the one who came up with the 'no more sex at work' proviso."

"Thanks," she says, taking her clothes from him. "You did agree to it, though." She thinks about how they've just broken that rule of hers -- _again_ ; though at least this time they lasted almost a week -- and rolls her eyes. "Well, at the time, anyway."

"Hey, you were _naked_ when you originally proposed that idea -- I'd've agreed to anything you said."

She laughs, and stands up, mock-sighing when he holds out a hand so that she can help him up to. "I'll have to remember that in future." She finds her water bottle under the table and, with that and her backpack in hand, starts making her way to the door. 

"As long as you're naked, you can remember whatever you want." His fingers slip under the hem of her tank, settling in the small of her back, as he follows her.

"Oh! That reminds me -- we need to buy milk on the way home."

"Bread too," he says, and then pauses; watches as she locks the trailer door. "Dare I ask how you being naked reminds you of milk?"

"Actually, it reminded me that we need more soap --"

"Gee, I can't imagine _why_."

"-- which led to remembering what else we're running low of."

"Cereal," he adds helpfully. "The kind with the mini-marshmallows that the girls like so much."

"That _you_ like so much, you mean," she teases as they approach their car.

"I know not of what you speak."

She snorts. "I'm sure you don't." Taking the keys from him, she unlocks the car and throws her bag into the backseat. "What time's Kerry dropping them off in the morning again?"

"Eight am sharp."

She groans, mostly for show. "So much for my Saturday morning sleep in."

"Poor baby," he teases back, "what ever will you do without your much needed beauty sleep?"

"Shower alone, obviously. And for a very, very long time -- I'm thinking months here, if not years."

"I've told you today that you're the most beautiful person I know, right?"

She almost laughs. "Pathetic," she scoffs instead, as they get into the car and she starts the engine.

He reaches across the divider and kisses her, softly, then leans back into his seat and smiles at her. "I love you," he says.

She smiles back. "Much better," she says, and heads them towards home. 

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/230004.html>


End file.
